


Bluffing With the Big Guys

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M, Poker Nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Major Crime's poker night - and because it's at the loft, Blair has been invited to join in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bluffing With the Big Guys

**BLUFFING with the BIG GUYS**  
by Alyjude

 

Blair packed up his study materials, shoved them haphazardly into his bag, slung the whole thing over his shoulder, checked his watch and almost gave out an audible "eeek," as he realized he was late. He hurried out of the library, literally ran to his car, threw the bag into the back seat, climbed in and started the Corvair.

Only it didn't start. "Shit!" He was going to be late _again_.

He pounded the steering wheel with his fist, then looked down at the betrayer, the ignition, which gazed back, unblinking and unstarting.

"Okay, I'm gonna try -- one more time -- and you _will_ start. Because this is an important day. Not to mention, that if I'm late again, Jim will fry this observer. Okay, I'm already late, but I can't be any later, you see? If I disappoint Jim again, the guys won't let me play tonight..."

He reached out his hand and twined his fingers around the key. "They _finally_ asked me to play, understand? The guys finally asked me, Blair Sandburg, to join them in the weekly Major Crime Poker Night. So I'm going to turn this key... and you will purr." He closed his eyes, sent up a last fervent prayer, then with lips pleading, "Please, please, please...." he s-l-o-w-l-y turned the key.

The Corvair purred to life. "YES, yes, yes!"

Blair roared out of the parking lot and made the twelve-minute trip to the station in a record-breaking five.

He swung the car into the first open spot he found in back, shut down, climbed out, slammed the door, ran into the police garage flashing his observer pass and, after noting the mass of 'just back from lunch' cops gathered around the single elevator, he veered left for the stairs.

Seven flights later, breathing hard, or hardly breathing, muscles bunched up tighter than a drum, a now thoroughly-exhausted Sandburg exited the stairwell. Once in the hall, he let himself hold up the opposite wall long enough to catch his breath. While leaning, knees slightly bent, hands resting on his thighs, he heard Henri Brown, who must have been just around the corner, talking with another MC Detective, David Wilson. When the pounding in his ears subsided, he decided to join the two men, but their words stopped him.

"... yeah, too bad. But Claire insists I help with painting the nursery. But I gotta tell ya', H, I was really looking forward to watching the Junior Hippie-Cop Wannabe swimming around with the sharks tonight, trying to play with the grownups."

"Come on, Wilson. Hairboy isn't that bad."

"Not that bad? Get real, H. What could that kid know about poker? As much as he knows about detective work?"

"Okay, admittedly the rest of us are a bit -- leery, but hell, he did okay with that Lash thing, and the game _is_ at Ellison's; it's not like we can ignore the kid."

Blair pushed away from the wall and threw himself back into the stairwell. For a moment he just stood, thinking; then he sat, somewhat dejectedly, on the top step, elbows on knees, face propped up by his hands. His breathing had evened out, which was a good thing. No panic attack. He kept on thinking.

Okay, he couldn't really blame the guys; shit, look at him. Not exactly the kind of guy you would find at a police poker game. Gee, was it the hair? The earrings? Or maybe the native jewelry? Or maybe it was the fact that he was an anthropologist?

Blair smiled inwardly. Well, none of the above facts were going to change anytime soon. Period. Blair Sandburg was, well... Blair Sandburg. He slapped his hand down on one leg, winced, then smiled outwardly. Maybe it was time to teach these guys that book covers could be very deceiving? And maybe have a little fun along the way?

_Oh, yeah. That's the ticket._

His smile grew decidedly wicked as a plan formed in his ever-active brain... and maybe that smile was a little -- evil?

*****

Sandburg pushed into #307, arms laden down with bags and cartons. He made his way to the kitchen where he let everything fall where it may. He knew he didn't have much time, but everything had to be perfect. He gave a little chuckle, only slightly maniacal in nature.

He and Jim had wrapped up the Jenkins case at around two PM, and Blair had finished the paperwork by three. Jim was scheduled to meet with Simon and the Deputy DA and, since Blair hadn't really been needed, he'd begged off, but promised to stop at the store and pick up whatever Jim needed for the night's game.

Sandburg grinned at the memory of Jim's list.

_Beer_  
More Beer  
Pretzels  
More Beer

Oh, yeah, he'd gotten the beer, all right. The chuckle was definitely maniacal now.

Blair picked up the two bags he'd allowed to fall to the floor and thanked Anyone above for Mardi Gras night at Rainier University. The guys from Major Crime would not soon forget this poker night. No way.

*****

Blair gave himself one last look in the mirror. Yeah, just the image.

His hair was down, and full around his face. He was wearing one of his old, African tribal shirts, in purple, blue and gold silk. He had several of his native necklaces around his neck, plus Naomi's old peace medallion. He'd replaced his two gold hoops with one short, dangling feather earring and one very long, dangling earring with a small 'Save the Whale' slogan, and he'd chosen the oldest, tightest and most torn jeans, with rips and tears in every conceivable spot, that he could find. On his feet were his old native sandals _and_ one gold toe ring, left over from one of his girlfriends.

Oh, yeah. Junior Hippie AnthroKid. Just one last touch. He popped out his contacts, put them away and slipped on his glasses. _Now_ he was the Junior Hippie AnthroKid. This was going to be so - totally - fucking - cool.

He went out and downstairs to his car, to bring up and assemble the final touch to the evening's poker game.

*****

It was after six when Jim and Simon finished with the Deputy District Attorney. "Shit, Ellison, you're going to be late to your own poker game."

"I'm not worried. I'm sure Sandburg has everything under control. He even agreed to pick up the groceries."

"Beer and Pretzels, I hope. I mean, he wouldn't, didn't, couldn't get anything -- exotic, would he?"

"Beer and Pretzels. That's it."

"So with Joel's chili, we're set."

"Yep."

"Can the kid play?"

"Simon, I don't think he'd agree to join us if he couldn't play, do you?"

"Right. Nothing to worry about."

"So why are you worried?"

"Why are you?"

Jim had to think about that for a minute, but just a minute. "Because we're talking about Sandburg."

"Exactly. Sandburg."

They'd arrived at their separate vehicles and, as Simon got into his, he couldn't resist one last jab. "You sure you don't want me to stop and pick up some extra beer and pretzels?"

"Simon, don't make me shoot you."

Banks responded in his most Captain-like, professional manner. He flipped Ellison the bird.

Jim returned the favor as Simon sped off.

*****

In spite of Simon's head start, Jim still beat him to the loft, but not by enough. He'd broken more than a few speed laws, in his attempt to get upstairs before Simon arrived. But as he got out of the Ford, Simon was just pulling in.

"Damn."

Jim wasn't -- concerned, really. More like... scared shitless. Sandburg's first game with the guys, and Jim was worried for him. He'd been listening to all the talk and it was amazing how one young observer could become the main topic of conversation among a bunch of hardened detectives. The opinions on 'the hippie's' poker prowess ranged from, 'nil' to 'bet he can't even shuffle'. As Jim waited for Simon, he found himself praying that Sandburg did, indeed, know how to shuffle.

*****

"OH - MY - GOD. Jim? Jim?" But Jim couldn't answer Simon. He was seriously contemplating a zoneout.

He and Simon were standing just inside the door to the loft and were staring at the transformation.

His kitchen table now rested against the back of the couch, and was covered by a white paper tablecloth, decorated in a multitude of different poker hands. On the table were platters, bowls, bottles, plates, utensils, etc. And in the center, a big, silver foam centerpiece, depicting a poker chip.

The platters held food that was totally unrecognizable by either man, _and_ each food item had a colorful toothpick stuck in the middle!

Jim took a tentative step forward, but Simon's hand griping his arm stopped him short. Simon was now gaping at what stood where the kitchen table should have... "Ohmygod."

It was a huge, regulation, Poker Table. A green-felt, octagon-shaped, chip-trays, mug-holders, fucking, regulation Poker Table.

"Jim, we've got to --"

"It's too late, the others are here, downstairs, on their fucking way up."

"Damn. And have I ever told you, I hate it when you do that?"

"No."

Jim _did_ take a step into the room then and yelled, "SAAAANDBUUUURG!"

Sandburg stepped into the hall from the bathroom. "Hey, Jim, you're home."

The two men got their first look at Sandburg. "Shit," Simon breathed out.

"Fuck," Jim breathed in.

"Exactly," Simon whispered.

"SIMON!" Jim yelled.

"JIM!" Simon yelled back.

"Hey, guys, what's the matter?" asked the guileless Junior Hippie AnthroKid.

Jim, the ever-in-control Sentinel, gathered his wits, scolded his lower brain back into submission and bellowed, "BEER AND PRETZELS, SANDBURG, BEER AND PRETZELS!"

"Why, Jim," and the young man walked over to the 'buffet' table, "the beer is right here..." he waved an arm expansively at the rows of brown bottles, "...and the pretzels are here," again waving, this time at two large bowls on either side of the table. "These are yogurt-covered pretzels, and these are carob covered... and check out the beer, man! I've got blueberry beer, ginseng beer, raspberry beer and these..." indicating four large bottles in the back row, "...these are from the Yooboo tree in the rainforests of Brazil. The natives make the beer and sell it to protect their home. It's expensive, and a little bitter, but hey, _very_ environmental."

"Oh, shit, they're here, Simon."

"Don't look at me. This is _your_ poker night."

Jim was backing toward the front door, but if his intent was escape, it was too late. A pounding on the door, followed by yells of, "Hey, Jim, open up!" said the guys had arrived.

Jim's hand was on the knob and, without really thinking about it, he turned it and let the door swing open. Escape was out of the question, but murder was still an option. Except that Sandburg looked so damn cute.

The loft was suddenly full of talking detectives; jackets were discarded, backs slapped, hands shaken. Then Jim and Simon were finally forced aside and the 'gang' got _their_ first look at the loft.

Silence fell. Like a ton of bricks.

And Blair's voice piped up. "Hey, guys, help yourselves, load up your plates and let's play poker!"

The next few minutes crawled by as Jim and Simon watched, open-mouthed, as their friends, or soon-to-be _ex_ -friends, picked up plates, walked around the buffet table and whispered. Jim heard, "What the fuck is that grey stuff?" and "Did he say _Octopus_?" and "Who the hell serves octopus at a poker game?"

The two men observed lots of chili being ladled onto the plates -- lots and lots of chili -- watched the guys grab bottles of beer - without - reading - the labels, and then walk over to the poker table, where they stood, as if in trances, staring at the sight, until they finally sat down.

Jim and Simon looked at each other, shrugged, and joined the men at the regulation - fucking - poker table.

Henri was first. He twisted off the cap of his beer, took a desperate swig, swallowed, then took another swig. And immediately spewed it across the table and into Larry Wilkins' face. "What the fu--? What is this stuff?" Brown sputtered.

Sandburg looked up in delight and said in complete innocence, "Oh, that's the blueberry beer, from the Collins Micro-brewery, on Fifth Street. You like it, H?"

Henri looked into those artless sapphire orbs, bright behind their lenses, gulped and said, "Sure, it's great. Just great."

Blair clapped his hands to get everyone's attention and asked, "So, who's the banker tonight?" He reached down to the floor and picked up the ugliest, biggest, black and gold chip-bank that any of them had ever seen, and plopped it down in the middle of the table.

The five other men looked at the bank of chips, looked at each other, looked daggers at Jim and then in complete unison, pointed fingers at the detective. He _~harrumph~_ ed and plucked the offending item off the table.

Then Blair tossed out one, shiny, new, red die. "I rolled a three. Guess I won't get the first deal."

Silence dropped with a thud. Six jaws joined the silence. Six heads swiveled to look at the observer. Who picked up the die and handed it off to Wes, on his left.

"Uh, Sandburg?"

"Yeah, Joel?"

"We, usually, um, cut the cards for the deal. You know?"

The Junior Hippie looked at each man around the table, let his smile fade slowly, frowned ever so slightly and said in a low voice, "Oh. Sure. Got it." _And_ he managed to look utterly and completely crestfallen.

Wes jumped to his rescue. "I _like_ rolling for the deal." He flashed Sandburg his best smile as he tossed the die. Jim Ellison once again thought of murder. And Simon's unlit cigar dropped out of his mouth and onto the floor.

"Cool, Wes, a six. Looks like you'll be dealing the first hand, unless we get a tie." Blair practically bounced in his seat as the die was passed to Joel.

Jim immediately sent up a prayer that there would be no other six rolled. He really didn't want to know how Sandburg would break a tie. But visions of 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey' did flutter past... followed by visions of his pining something else to Blair's tail... which forced an uncomfortable shift in his jeans and another very terse lecture to his lower brain.

But Wes did indeed win the deal.

"Alright," Wes intoned, "Let's open with five-card draw, jokers good for aces, straights and flushes, jacks or better to open. Ante up."

The cards were dealt, but before Wes could make the rounds for discards, Blair set his hand down, got up, went into his room and came back with a pad and pencil. "Uh, Jim, could you remind me?"

"Chief? Remind you of what?"

"You know... what beats what?"

Five pairs of eyes looked at the observer.

Jim looked into those wide, pure blue eyes and immediately started to recite -- and was soon joined by the others --

"One pair beats high card, two pair beats one pair, three of a kind beat two pair, a straight beats three of a kind, a flush beats a straight, a full house beats a flush, four of a kind beats a full house, a straight flush beats four of a kind, a royal flush beats a straight flush and five of a kind, when using wild cards, beats everything."

The 'Major Crime Poker Chorus' ended and Blair looked up, bestowed his best smile, and said, "Gosh, guys, thanks. I've got it now."

Henri won the first hand but, after one look at the dejected Sandburg, he mentally vowed that it would be his _last_ win of the evening.

They went three more hands, with Jim, Simon and Joel taking the wins. At conclusion of each hand, Blair just got quieter, shoulders slumping a bit more...

On the fifth hand, everyone folded, leaving Blair the winner with a pair of twos. "Wow! I won. Cool."

The other guys felt much better. The bounce was back.

Blair won the sixth hand as well, when Simon finally threw in his hand after one look into those innocent baby blues.

The cards were passed to the Junior Hippie and it was finally his turn to deal. He slowly parted the cards, painfully shuffled them -- losing several and having to start over -- then he began the slow, careful, counting of his deal.

"Okay, gentlemen, the game is seven-card stud, eights, threes, one-eyed jacks and jokers are wild, the third card after the first red queen is wild, _and_ the guy to the left of the guy who gets the first black jack, gets half the pot. Ante up, boys, this dealer is hot!"

For the umpteenth time that evening, silence fell. Like a guillotine. Blair's head perked up, eyes round as saucers. "Problem, guys?"

A chorus of, "Oh, no, nothing, nothing at all!" met him.

"Oh, good. But before we actually bet, could you excuse me for a sec?"

"Oh, sure, no problem," they all chorused.

To the frenzied whisperings of -- "What cards are wild?" and "Did he say the guy on the left, or the guy on the right?" and "Is it the third card after the red queen, or the second card after the black queen?" -- Blair Sandburg slipped into his room, barely containing his laughter.

A few minutes later, he came back out, walked over to the kitchen, opened a bottom cupboard, pulled out two big bowls of Rold Gold Pretzels, plopped them down on the table, went back and pulled six icy-cold bottles of Heineken's out of the fridge, passed them around, went back and got himself a cold one, then took his seat.

Gone was the African shirt, replaced by a soft, grey T-shirt with the Cascade PD emblem emblazoned across the front. Gone were the necklaces, and the earrings, replaced by his usual leather thong ankh around his neck and his usual two gold hoops in his ear. His hair was tied back and he'd replaced the jeans with warm, comfortable sweats and the sandals with grey sweat socks. He still wore his glasses.

He gathered up the cards, re-shuffled so fast that even Sentinel sight could barely keep up, then with nimble fingers he quickly and efficiently dealt. Two cards down, one card up. "Seven-card stud, jokers wild, gentlemen." Then he sat back to enjoy the explosion.

He wasn't disappointed. A multitude of "Shit"s, "Fuck"s, "Hot damn"s, and, "Well, I'll be..."s were unleashed as the guys yelled and screamed. The loud and very vocal exclamations were followed by a volley of chips flying through the air, all _~thwack_ ~ing, _~thud~_ ing, _~splat~_ ing and _~kerplunk~_ ing against Blair's anatomy.

Don't let it be said that the Major Crime Poker Club can't take a joke.

After the last chip had fallen, Blair looked around, blue eyes reflecting only the purest of innocence and said, "Gee, guys, something wrong?"

*****

The poker game went on into the wee small hours of Saturday morning, with Sandburg emerging the eventual winner. And while the other detectives were tired and broke, they all had to agree that it had been the best poker night that any of them could remember.

Wes even went so far as to ask for Sandburg's recipe for the garlic octopus, and was only slightly cowed when Jim threatened his life and Sandburg told him that he undoubtedly had a recipe for garlic octopus, but that what was on the table was rubber. From the prop department at the University.

Simon was the last to leave and, as he pulled on his coat, he gave one last look around the loft, then down at his observer. "I suppose we deserved this, Sandburg?"

"Yes, sir. Just a bit."

"Well, you throw a mean poker party."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Simon, call me Simon. But _not_ at the station."

"Yes, sir, uh, Simon."

As Jim opened the door to let Simon out, Banks leaned in and whispered, "Glad you didn't cut him loose; I think we should keep him."

Ellison just patted his captain on the back and gently, but firmly, shut the door. When he turned back around, Sandburg was already starting to clean up.

"Chief, we can do that in the morning."

"Number one, it _is_ morning, and number two, who are you?"

"Hey, I'm serious, we'll clean up later, let's go to bed."

Sandburg frowned, walked over to Jim, put one hand on his forehead and shook his own head. "Nope, you don't have a fever. Did you eat one of the rubber octopi?"

Jim pulled the hand away from his brow. "Very funny, Maverick. I _do_ understand the concept of Sandburg rule number forty-three -- 'Do it later'..."

"Yeah, but can you actually follow that rule without succumbing to the stress and eventual breakdown? And did you know, you're still holding my hand?"

"Yes -- and -- yes."

"So, do I get to be Brett or Bart?"

"You're Beau."

"BEAU! But he was just a cousin."

"Yep. A kissing cousin. You would rather be brothers?" Jim was now pressing the palm of Sandburg's hand with his thumb, making lazy circles and purring.

"No, no... not at all... no, brothers would not be good. I'm Beau. Brett's kissing cousin."

Using the hand he was still caressing, Jim pulled the younger man into his arms, lowered his head and nuzzled an ear, whispering, "I always knew there was something going on between Brett and Beau, and it wasn't poker."

"I'll raise that bet."

"Already rising, Chief, already rising."

*****

**LATER**

Jim lay on his side, one arm under his new bedmate, watching Blair sleep. He had a new passtime. Better than the Jags. He let one finger run along the beautiful jaw, rough with stubble, then traced those lips. Blair stirred but didn't waken.

"Oh yeah," he whispered to his sleeping lover, "I'm keeping you. Forever. Even if you hadn't known how to shuffle."

Finis

 

  
**Disclaimer:** All characters from **The Sentinel** are the property of Pet Fly Productions, Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo. Characters from any other television show, movie or book are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. We believe the works contained in this archive to be transformative in nature and therefore protected under the 'fair use' provisions of copyright law.

This story archived at <http://asr3.slashzone.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=1209>


End file.
